THE LIFE UNCOMMON.

I sat within the walls of a church this morning, something I have neglected to do for quite some time now. It is absolutely astounding to me how strong the call to service still is within me. I wouldn't have believed it if you had told me that over the past few months, still harbored within me is this genuine urgency to do something remotely humanitarian, and at the very least, substantial with my life.
I wanted to be a priest so, so badly. Not even a priest for what was required by the Catholic faith and teachings, but for the incentives of human interaction. By that, I mean to say, the opportunity to work with so many different individuals hands-on and in a very personal, legitimate, spiritual sense. To immerse myself in the strife and joy of human beings on a very frequent basis, and to allow them to find some sort of solace and companionship in my presence.

Basically, I just want to "do good."

I guess that was a bit of my secret in high school- here's a crazy teenage girl who wants to enter the seminary. Not realistically, seeing as the Catholic church still offers very little for women who choose a religious life (Not entirely true, though. I merely speak of the pastoral responsibilities as something more engaging than life as a sister or a seminary-trained female. I wanted to be more prominent than that, I suppose. Selfish of me? Perhaps, but I've always felt as though women deserve more responsibility in the church. Hopefully, someday, that will come about.).

I think what influenced that drive the most was growing up around these men who were so very devoted to the people they served in almost every imaginable capacity. I know more priests than I can count, a large number of whom I managed to chat with again this morning. At a very young age, they became for me not only friends, but models for what I wanted to be, well-springs of the goodness I believed was within each individual and merely waiting to surface.

Over the years, that concept has been betrayed a few times, as I am sure happens with every bit of the "stuff dreams are made of." Some of these men, I feel, cheated others out of some of the joys and responsibilities they should have enjoyed. Some found heavily weighing voices more important than those whom they were supposedly responsible for serving. Some, dare I say it, simply changed, as though help and compassion simply weren't enough motivation for them any longer. I have watched these men progress, and regardless of their own transformations, I, too, have grown. I know more about myself, about the tolerances I allow around me, and how willing and open I have become to things I might have forever closed myself to. I have learned to be hurt. I have fallen in love. I have made wrong decisions, and I have ultimately learned to shape myself as the human being I desire to be. Along that path, somewhere, I found a bit of the capability and drive to be all of those things I hoped to encompass without the aide of the church. Not literally, of course, but without the legitimate sacramental notation that I once deemed essential and necessary in preserving the essence of what I wanted to be as an individual who is decent, compassionate, and eternally giving.

I continue to strive toward that, regardless of what life requires of me in order to do so.

"FAMOUS." WHATEVER THAT MEANS.

There is an over-abundance of media exposure that has led me to the belief that celebrity status in the universe is not only attainable, but relatively happenstance.
Not necessarily- but in the last few days, I've been reading Live From New York, an "uncensored" pseudo-biography of Saturday Night Live from its conception to its eventual established niche in popular culture, written by Tom Shales and James Andrew Miller. I'm fascinated for obvious reasons, the primary being the establishment of the notorious seven original Not-Ready-For-Prime-Time Players, some of whom remain my greatest improvisational heroes to date.

What continues to eat at me, page after page, is how intensely easeless some of these performers made their work history out to be. That last sentence probably makes no sense, but what I'm trying to say is that there seems to be this collective of innately talented individuals who simply showed up and watched this wonderful and exclusive world build up around them. I am not saying that they did not have the talent, ambition, or work ethic to be there- hardly. What I have difficulty understanding is how all of these vastly illuminate individuals managed to find each other so perfectly and with such immense precision; how, at twenty-one years of age, these people were writing for a nationally syndicated program or doing absolutely incredible work that surpasses some of my more creative fantasies. I remain legitimately baffled.

And honestly, it's not just the book that has brought all of this rapid-fire deduction on: I feel absolutely bombarded with the concept of "mediazation" of an individual(In my own words, the intense and repeated inundation of individuals in society by means of television, internet, movies, media of other sources, etcetera. Naked Chronicles defines it as "the way in which symbolic forms in modern society have become increasingly mediated by mechanisms and institutions of mass communication") to the degree where they have no course but to become "famous" by whatever social public exists.

I have no difficulty with these levels of "fame" that might as well be attained on a day-to-day basis. The fact is, I desire very little of that sort of public identification. What I so desperately seek is the kind of artistically-driven atmosphere that seemed to exist in this SNL reality within the late seventies, a world that housed some notoriously incredible minds with what seemed to be great ease. I simply cannot imagine the abundance of talent that appeared to merely gravitate towards one another. It seems a rather impossible feat, to be honest. But, good heavens, how I would kill for it.

I have a considerable envy for those with whom everything appears to merely fall into place. I am sure that the situations are certainly skewed from that sort of simplicity, but there are so many instances where everything looks as though an individual with some sort of god-given talent just met the right people at the right time and managed to get what they needed with so little extraneous effort. Seamless goal accomplishment, if you will.

All of this just seems to drive home the fact that I need to continue to work unceasingly and unwaveringly in my efforts towards whatever it is I so desperately desire. I have to work and work and work. But I'm not really concerned with that. I just need it. More than anything. And therefore, it is my responsibility to make it happen. Period. Simple as that.
Good.

IT'S BEEN A LONG DAY.

Back in Dunedin at last after a good two hours of flight delay.
Tired as all get-out.
Sad to be away from a loved one, but that's just the way it goes.

Stupid human beings continue to leave me comments on just how atrocious a fellow human being I happen to be. Just another reminder of why I despise people, and certain individuals on top of that.
It's nice not to care what people think, at least for the moment.
[Editor's Note: I'm on summer vacation- if someone wants to give me crap, let them attack me long-distance so that they remain safe and protected. Regardless, they appear to be little girly-girls with a lack of gonads and a perpetually high-school mentality. Fun.]

On another note, I'm so very illiterate tonight. This morning. Whatever. I've lost all ability to be cognitive at this point, so it's not really worth typing too much more. I'll find some way to make sense of everything in the morning.

SNOOPY ROCKS MY SOCKS.

Delay in updates?
You better freaking believe it.

Monday, we were lazy. Get over it.
Tuesday was an all-day-palooza at the Shawnee Playhouse. I read a book, and it was lovely. The end.
Wednesday, praise Jesus, was lazy. Deal, be-otches.
Thursday we had yet another all-day-palooza at the Shawnee Playhouse. I hung and sorted and cleared to my heart's content, and then I did not. 'Tis as simple as that.
Friday led me into the grand land of Harrisburg, where I attended a college graduation and ate crappy food with my dearest love, Annie. And then, of course, a little drinking.
Yesterday was spent tromping around Dorney Park (which, luckily for me, is basically Snoopy-dominated). It was easily one of the best days I've had here in PA, despite the fact that I am completely devoid of energy and/or funding from here on out in my stay.
Today was time spent in The City. "Time spent" does not exactly constitute "time well spent," but that's simply my burden to deal with. And then, there was a little drinking.
In remaining ambiguous, I hold power. Tee hee.
And tonight, I sleep for hours and hours on end. Possibly days. Maybe months.
Actually, just hours. That works.

"I ALWAYS KNEW JESUS WAS ASIAN."

Broadway Double Header = Freaking Amazing.

The 25th Annual Putnum County Spelling Bee
Aside from a bit too much audience participation, this was an immense amount of fun. Met Jesse Tyler Ferguson, sat close enough to have Barfee spit come flying at me, and genuinely enjoyed finally seeing the production live. Environmental staff kicks ass.

Sweeny Todd
Easily the nicest production I have ever seen. A few little quirky details ran amiss, but Michael Cerveris is now my homeboy. Met He, Patty LuPone, Alex G., and several others. It basically made my life.

I promise of more details to come, but I'm way too exhausted to stay up any longer.

HUH?

I am currently lounging around in East Stroudsburg, PA.
When did that happen, you ask?
Just about a week ago.
In the midst of cramming my hapless brain for exams and other such wonderful fun, I managed to sneak my way into another state.
Not exactly the truth, but I don't have time to type.
Later, internet.

CLASSWORK.

This morning held excitement in the realm of a visiting writer who was to speak to our English class. I was hopeful, merely because she prolonged the due date of a rough draft, but also because she happened to be Canadian.
And you know how "I love me some" Canadians.
She had us work on an individual assignment- a "to do" list of sorts, with either concrete or whimsical foundations. The basic absurdity of sitting in the classroom led me to what you see below.

How To Make Sense Of Somewhat (Read: Entirely) Ridiculous Course Content:

1. Breathe. You only have three more years.
2. Breathe again. You will never have to take another English course again unless so desired.
3. These people have doctorates, right?
4. Obviously, you, too, can hold your own doctorate someday.
5. “Words, words, words,” said William Shakespeare.
6. Fucking artist.
7. Management positions typically do not require the writing of research papers, right?
8. At least Stanislavski thinks you’re cool.
9. You can always make the entire experience sound okay when you edit the facts in your blog.
10. Hemming-who?
11. Prose: huh? What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. Say it again, now.
12. You have never looked good in ink stains.
13. You have a minor in Business Administration. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. (Squared.) Bitches.

IT'S NO LONGER MARCH, BE-OTCH.

Seventy billion things have happened in the last month, and I, being as irresponsible as people can get, have hardly taken the time to address them with the maturity or gravity that they should obviously be subject to. For this reason, among many others, I shall attempt to recapture the last few weeks of activity in a nutshell.

Thirty-one statements for thirty-one days? I think it's a fair trade-off.

1. My time has been non-existent.
2. Brigadoon is completed to everyone's great joy and enthusiasm.
3. Conflicts have ensued in various fashions, like they do.
4. I was tapped as a pledge for Alpha Psi Omega.
5. I'm doing considerably well in Business Math.
6. My movie collection has expanded exponentially.
7. Michael and I are wonderful.
8. (And at five months to date.)
9. I wrote a paper on Celebrity Worship Syndrome, only to discover that I suffer from the disease myself.
10. I've been to Dunedin.
11. I've been to Orlando.
12. Directing shows are two days out.
13. Conservatory shows are a week and three days out.
14. I'm considerably excited about both.
15. Rachel and I should be rooming together next semester if we ever find two minutes to talk to Student Services.
16. I'll be spending the first two weeks out of school in PA, and then heading back for work at home.
17. I've discovered that I have difficulty sleeping without a sleep mask of some sort. I suppose that makes me sufficiently wimpy.
18. My room has been relatively clean for the past month.
19. I have been living by myself for the past month.
20. The combination of #18 and #19 is rather remarkable.
21. Frasier is the cutest dog alive, but is also Satan incarnate.
22. I make a kick-ass pot of Macaroni & Cheese.
23. I am continually roped into amazing Theatre Party pictures, and I'm loving every minute of it.
24. For probably the first time in my life, I forgot about April Fool's Day.
25. I love my weekends in St. Augustine.
26. After a six-hour conversation with Michael, I've concluded that I want more than anything to direct.
27. I love pie.
28. Poker Nights have been some of my favorite times this semester.
29. I finally feel as though I have a base of people who care about me and respect me for who I am.
30. I have to be up really soon.
31. And I think it's time for bed.

That should satisfy, I hope.
If not, deal with it.

BEDTIME.

Ugh. I can't believe that it takes me such a horrifically long time to muster up the time and/or energy to write a mere update on the goings-on of daily life.
Perhaps it's because I don't think I could reasonably depict each and every detail of my daily life.
Because it's too boring- perhaps.
Because it's too invigorating- Ha.
Maybe it's because I just don't want to have to relive everything. Or make anyone else do so. It's not that life is awful- in fact, sometimes, it's beyond amazing. But, the fact of the matter is, I want to live it, experience it, and then move on.
I'm lying.
I want it all here, detail by detail, ready to glance through at my disposal.
I'll have to be better about that in the future.
In other news, life is good. Really nice. I'm exhausted, but there's absolutely nothing new about that statement.
And I've been up typing for a full hour since I came to bed.
I wonder how I could possibly be tired...

Alright. Sleep. For the moment, anyway.
And some good stories to follow, I hope.

WEEKEND.

Easily the most fun and relaxation I've had in the past few months. I needed time to be away and alone, far from the prying eyes of people and things who simply don't matter to me.
Ahh.
It absolutely "sucks" to be back in town, but at least I managed to get from this weekend the kind of replenishment that I desperately needed.
Pictures to follow, of course.

HUGH LAURIE IS CRYING.

I have missed the last five episodes of House, M.D.
I am such an unbelievable disappointment.

BRIG-A-WHAT-WHAT.

IT IS FINISHED.
DONE.
OVER.
I could not be more overjoyed to have my evenings to myself, even to the slightest degree. Life has been eternally frustrating for the past few weeks, but now, it's over and done with and things can move forward.
I am so beyond excited.
Can you tell?

SILLY LITTLE FOOL.

This is just my two-week span of insanity, I guess.
I don't know exactly how much I've been through in the last few days (seeing as I feel relatively removed from myself for the time being), but I can estimate that it adds up to a grand total of More Than I Have Ever Dealt With In My Life Excluding A Few Solitary Occasions.
Fun!
Life sits as a tediously balanced item, weighted on either end and ready to plummet without a moment's notice. I'm certainly alright with that. After all, without the tension, where would life's excitement spring from?
It just so happens that the same tension that engages and inspires me also threatens to, in most eloquent terms, make me vomit. My stomach sits in a hushed disdain that looms with the fear of erupting at any second. Food has, once again, become a thing to be reviled, if only for the fact that it will not stay down. I feel myself weakening in both physical and mental capacities to say the least. These last few weeks have proven some of the most emotional in my life, and I daresay, I never want such a thing to occur again. I feel so very little, so easily threatened, and so very, very weak.
Not a good thing, I can assure you.
Feeling infantile is probably one of the most painful experiences I've ever faced. I do not want to feel as though I am not in control of the world around me. I do not want to feel as though my body will not obey my simple requests to take in the nutrients necessary to sustain function. I do not want to spend the rest of my life in tears like a silly little fool.
I have never felt like a fool, but every time my eyes threaten to well up, I am nothing short of swimming in foolishness.
Silly. That's what life is right now.
Silly.

BEST DAY EVER.

I just spent the most relaxing afternoon/evening ever with three amazing people.
Oh, and a puppy. He was cute, too.
Gerard, Michael, and Rachel make my life. They're amazing, and each in some crazy, unique sense. I would be absolutely lost without their friendship right now.
A bout of playtime sans-Brigadoon was exactly what we all needed so that there was a lack of tension and anxiety in the air. And there was. It was literally the perfect, relaxing expedition I could have hoped for.
Pictures later. I promise.

GOOD DAY.

It's Michael's 21st birthday, but beyond that, today is going to be so much better than any other day this week has been.
I can tell.
I have (some) renewed energy, I had a lovely time with my dearest of friends last night, and best of all, I know that I have people around me who care about me.
And that, above all, is huge.
Okay. It might be nap time. We'll have to see.

[Editor's Note: The above post seemed horribly amiss by the time Brigadoon rolled around this evening, then quickly progressed back to the level of fantastic-ness I could have hoped for. I have rectified several different things on emotional and professional levels, allowed myself some form of relaxation, and have opportune ability to sleep until call at noon tomorrow. Good day, indeed.]

MOMENT.

I feel totally and utterly crushed.
Zombie-like.
I have so little stamina left to deal with everything around me.
At this moment in my life, I want nothing more than someone just to hold me, and yet, I am isolated and alone and it is all of my own doing.
I'm a disappointment, but not just for all of those other people.
I'm a disappointment to myself.

If anyone else is going to step on whatever happens to be left of me, please, do it now. I don't want to feel like this for the rest of my life.

TALKING POINTS.

This has been my week for disappointing people, I guess.

I have no roommates.
I have friends who seem enjoy their distance.
I have parents who wish I would do more.
I have peers who wish I would keep my mouth shut.
I have a boyfriend who wishes I would open up.
I have instructors who want me to work.
I have a voice in my head that demands more from me than I think I have to give.

I am exhausted. I wish the things I did were not so detrimental to those around me, but, apparently, they are. I don't even know what I'm doing.
Sleep cannot come too quickly.

FRASIER IS MY HOMEDOG.

The apartment was given a puppy.
He is officially Michael's; that means he's mine, too.
His name is Frasier. And I could not be happier.

I WISH IT WERE NAP TIME.

There is nothing but genuine insanity that can depict the goings-on of this past week. I've had little time to rest, more time to drive myself crazy, and even more of the ambition to just sleep my way through the end of time. I've been running relatively non-stop (as I'm sure just about everyone else has done, as well), and I'm more than ready to just collapse and take a few moments at my own discretion. I would love to take a nap, I would kill for a teensy bit of slack when it comes to my college workload, and I would love for Brigadoon to disappear off the map for another hundred years.
Fun.

BECAUSE I TEND TO FOLLOW THE LEADER.

The Johari Window was invented by Joseph Luft and Harrington Ingram in the 1950s as a model for mapping personality awareness. By describing yourself from a fixed list of adjectives, then asking your friends and colleagues to describe you from the same list, a grid of overlap and difference can be built up.

It simply involves selecting 5 or 6 adjectives to describe yourself/others you know to create a personality map of sorts that is organized according to what you think of yourself and what others think of you.

Pick adjectives to describe me and add to my map here:
http://kevan.org/johari?name=Kellereno

Build your own here so I can visit it and pick adjectives for you:
http://kevan.org/johari

BWAHHAHAHA.

So, monologues are fun!
Please, O Higher Being, let the hurting stop.
How cliche', but thank goodness it's Friday, or else I'd cut someone.
You heard me- physical violence abounds.

A LOOK BACK AT SHEER VALENTINE'S DAY GREATNESS.

What could Valentine's Day possibly be to me without recalling the sheer brilliance of two crazy bag ladies? What, I ask?
Nothing. That's correct.
Revel in it, and wish you were as goddamn cool as as Jen and I continue to be.
I love my Jen-Gerh.

Written (ever so eloquently) by the Great Jennifer Gerhardt and the Not-So-Great Kelley Smith.

So, it's Valentine's Day. Hallmark sells out of those cutesy kissing teddy bears, Godiva swims in chocolate-induced profits, and local jewelry stores revel in how culpable most boyfriends are to the popular media. The world seems in order. Valentine's Day appears, as usual, a sappy and sentimental affair.
Not to burst the proverbial bubble, but this cannot be true: Valentine's Day is ridden with venomous evil unseen to the naive and relationship-inclined. How vast is this evil, you ask? Evil as vast as the distance between the ground and the balcony that Michael Jackson nearly dropped his baby off of, as vast as the crocodile that came within inches of consuming Steve Irwin's infant son- combined. It is the spawn of Satan and some seriously demented executive who thought no one would actually take the time to research the Pagan history of this little holiday.
Well, Satan and Mr. Demented Executive Man, we're onto you and your twisted games. We're taking a stand!
No longer will we tolerate those cheesy pictures we take with our significant others. What, we ask, is the point? Two weeks from now we'll have either chopped them into tiny bits, have superimposed the faces onto voodoo dolls, or have burned them; the future looks that promising.
The future looks so promising, in fact, that we have decided to send our coupled friends gifts to show our "appreciation" and genuine astonishment at their devotion- and what better a way than by sending either a Condolence Basket or Wreath for Sympathy, easily ordered off of Coast To Coast Florist. The Standing Rose Cross or Spirit of Love Angel also prove perfect for any occasion, even for funerals.
Not that we'd dare compare a funeral to a holiday faction centered around love, joy, simplicity, and happiness (or disgrace, in the case of the "personal ad" fad); after all, death is God's way of saying, "Take some time off from the Love-fest. Meditate on total isolation, utter and complete loneliness, things like that. Builds good character."
Chocolate builds things up as well: your serotonin, your cholesterol, your cocoa addiction, all in one fell swoop. Chocolate motivates; chocolate inspires; chocolate infuses Valentine's Day with enough sugar to send anyone into a diabetic coma. It is, quite possibly, the world's most supportive and nutritionally indecent food; therefore, it is the perfect significant other. Although those fake helpings of coconut and cherries, with their regurgitated and shriveled appearances, don't deserve to be coupled with such perfection, we are willing to make a few vital sacrifices- "In the name of love," as Bono and U2 once sang. Fork over that heart-shaped box, complete with Cupid image, now.
While on the subject of hearts, hold a mock drama of saying The Pledge and place your hand over your heart. Feel that familiar "lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub" and think of what Bill Nye once taught you. A heart, in fact, never has nor never will be shaped as the type of hearts manufactured in conjunction with Valentine's Day; it would be interesting to see a heart of such fine symmetric shape, we think, but wholy detrimental to the human body. However, for the sake of amusement, we wonder: would sales surge in Valentine's Day propaganda were its icon an asymmetrical valve-ridden blood-pumper? With the anatomically correct form of a heart promoted, would cannibalism reach an all-time high? How would people react to shop windows with functional models of everyone's favorite blood circulation device? The answer: repulsion, re-gifts, and rejection. Oh, and profit plummet.
Valentine's Day has gradually deteriorated, rotted, and dwindled away to nothing more than a holiday of false hopes, false advertising, and false encouragement; yet, we continue to cherish and celebrate the "spirit of love" that it brings. Honesty remains underrated: we cast it aside with disturbing nonchalance. We opt to dupe ourselves into a devastating series of fabrications that ultimately leave us bitter, cynical, and alarming to small children- look to the authors of this column for living proof.
A few fleeting words of advice to actually make Valentine's Day mean something: try and retain the content of this holiday, ditch some of the excessive optimism, and definitely, be practical (we, of course, speak monetarially). This day is by no means the only day to celebrate the ones you love; why pour all of your effort into it? Inconsistency makes you appear haphazard.

AND NOW, FOR ANOTHER NEW FAVORITE...

Sean McCourt is officially one of my new favorite Broadway men. After watching him in the Wicked bootleg, I think I might just consider taking him from the Gershwin stage door and having his bald-headed children.
Hot.

[Editor's Note: As a side-bar, I just finished the bootleg, and as unimpressed as I am with certain leads *coughIDINAcough*, Norbert can have my sweet, sweet candy. That's right. You heard me. CANDY.]

LOVE IT.

How much do I love it?
A lot.
A hell of a lot.
Finally, I can smile.

AM I ALLOWED TO VENT NOW?

Life has gotten to the point where I think I could be easily content giving up some of the people around me.
That should be depressing, right? It should sting, tear, mean something beyond an ounce of freedom from the utter stupidity, or so I'd like to think.
Things are so genuinely frivolous, I'm coming to find.
I had a nice non-house-meeting talk this evening with my fellow non-housemate, and I couldn't express how much I appreciated it. I've only found a few relatively composed, responsible individuals in the department, and he happens to be one of them. It's nice to spend time with someone I trust who seems to enjoy stepping away from the crap that is consistently thrown out from all sides of life, leaving all involved parties defenseless (and not to mention covered in crap). We reveled in certain levels of stupidity, relative bullshit, and found solace in the fact that not all things are under our control. I definitely owe him for that.
Other people around me have become infinitely frustrating. I feel like I am, once again, a tool to be used at the disposal of those around me, regardless of my needs or desires at times. Not always, mind you, but it's starting to compound. I know that said individuals have concern for my well being, but sometimes mere concern cannot feed my proverbial (and literal) soul. I need to surround myself with something or someone entirely new, I fear.
Have I ever mentioned how much I adore coming back to my dorm to find food-related-trash scattered about my living space, my laptop still partially unlatched, and best of all, crumbs on my bed?
How I love being stable and devoid of reactionary emotion...

BLAH.

This week needs to end.
Now.

[INSERT CLEVER TITLE HERE]!

Oh, the haunts of censorship and my inability to write honestly about anything!
Here's my attempt at an entirely ambiguous journal entry.

On [A DAY OF THE WEEK], I [AN ACTION OF SOME SORT] while I was hanging out with [NAME OF ANOTHER HUMAN BEING], who was making me feel [AN EMOTION OF SOME SORT].
How [ADJECTIVE OF SOME SORT]!

Ahh. It's good to get that off my chest.

In total and complete honesty, however, I think that's the clearest linear thought I've had in quite some time. My mind is still reeling over the past few weeks of events (Hell, over the past few DAYS of events...), and I can't be sure exactly when the spinning might find it in its little rotational heart to stop.
Please, make the spinning stop.
I wish I could speak candidly about life in general, but so many things prohibit my utterances, the least of which being my exhaustion. No, I could type into the wee hours of...now...without much hesitation, but I have classes. Gross. I must attend said classes and participate and attempt to prove that I have nothing on my mind except said classes.
Fun.

WHY THE HELL NOT?

Why shouldn't I post crappy pictures, huh?
Exactly.

EDITOR'S NOTE:

Apparently, the previous entry has gotten me in more trouble than should be humanly worth it. I resist the urge to censor, and it bites me in the ass. Oh well. Some people are overly sensitive, and others I love dearly enough that I would never mean to hurt. Michael, namely. I love him, and he knows that, and there's no one in the universe I'd rather spend my time with.
Which means the crazy people need to take a step back. Seriously. Before I tazer them.

LAND OF THE LIVING DEAD?

Mother of God, I am still alive.
I have no idea how I've managed to remain alive and breathing, but somehow, by some illegitimate notion of reality, I sit here, typing and functioning to as normal a degree as can be humanly expected.
The last few weeks are finally behind me, and I could not be happier. I simply cannot express how genuinely peaceful I feel knowing that Indulgences is behind me. It's done. Finished. Over. DEAD.
Classes will continue to supply a perpetual workload, so I have no worries as to how my time will be spent. However, it will be nice to have one or two evenings at my disposal before Brigadoon wraps me in its Scottish talons and squeezes whatever life remains out of me. And then, of course, come Conservatory and Directing show work. As excited as I am to do one, I am only slightly excited to do the other. Can you guess? I'll give you a hint- I'm lying. No, not really: Love Talker seems like it's going to be a genuinely interesting experience, whereas After might prove to be nothing more productive than a chance to have some fun with Manring. I would just like to get them finished. Done with. Gone.
I would like to justify my life outlook based on one sole factor, but I can't seem to garner one that would clarify all my problems in one foul swoop. Well, I've not been able to hold down a single meal this week- I feel as though my system is simply bent on the blatant and outright rejection of food, no matter what the sort. That certainly hasn't been a major factor of facilitation in my well being. Yet, we digress.
I'm having difficulty allowing myself to categorize just how I'm feeling about Michael. Yes, he's self-centered. I know. I'm dealing with it. Yes, he's absorbed. I know- I'm trying to pretend it doesn't affect me, but it does. I find myself hurting so often when I'm around him, merely for the fact that he doesn't know how to multi-task: he can't grasp the concept of splitting his focus and allowing for more than one factor to dominate his mind-frame. It kills me. It does. But it's not something I can change. Not to mention the fact that I'd crush him if he knew. I feel like I keep so much of myself from him, if only for the fact that he seems fragile enough to not be able to take a lot of what I have to say. I've seen him recoil from my sharpness. I can only imagine what he'd feel under my scrutiny.
Ugh. Enough of this loathed talking. I have a monologue to learn for tomorrow morning, and I'll be damned if I don't manage to have it perfectly memorized.
Damned, I tell you.

PLEASE?

I hate people. One person in particular.
I don't like her.
Mean.
Rude.
I can't stand her.
Please, please, make her go away. I don't care how its done, just make it happen.
Take her self absorbed grin off the planet. Please.

ENTRY #600.

Tonight marks the first performance for Indulgences in the Louisville Harem, so I would encourage all who can attend to take a peek sometime this weekend.
Ugh. So frantic, so nervous, and so ready to finish this show.
This is finally my opportunity to have fun with this production. I have to remember that, and take it to heart tonight.
Breathing is essential, but so is loving what I'm doing.
I love it. I will always love it. I know that.
Here's to us, Cast and Crew.

RECAPPING IS A JOY.

Oh, how life explodes in the course of mere days. I feel I've run the emotional gauntlet to its extremes, and beyond that, find myself generally overwhelmed.
Entirely overwhelmed, it might seem.
Exhausted beyond all belief.
Wrought with anxiety over the next two weeks.
Hopelessly devoted to someone I fall increasingly in love with as the days progress.
Unforgivingly conscious of the talented nature of the people around me.
Relatively distanced from any concept of sanity.
A veritable "Sleepless in St. Augustine," if you will.

I broke down in a horrific fit of sobbing this evening. I could easily associate it to an ingenious combination of whatever food and lack of sleep I've taken in recently, but the honest truth is that I have no idea what triggered it. Michael is certainly a confounding factor, but not the causation, I can assure myself. Ugh. I hate that he makes me so damn happy. Perhaps its a sign of insanity to despise that joyous feeling he wrangles out of me, but I think I fear more for its end than for its perseverance. I pray for its insistence. I love him, and it drives me crazy that I've fallen into something this deep and truthful in such a relatively short span of time. It fights against every logical thought in my head, yet I can do nothing to prevent the brutal assassination of such thoughts. Love, it seems, is certainly the more powerful weapon for the moment. And then, of course, comes the reality that he will be meeting my entire family in a mere span of two weeks.
Two weeks.
I don't think I can express how genuinely frightened that makes me. I mean, they will love and adore him, my father will blatantly torment him, but all will be well. I fear that he will despise me after meeting said family, but I think I genuinely have no capability to prevent such a thing. It will happen. What will be will be.
They'll get along fine. I just need to relax.
Sleep in my own bed, along with a cheeseburger and some juice should be just what the doctor ordered. I will be fine. I will survive. I will not break out into hysterical sobbing fits.
There's simply no need for it.
I just need to relax.
Breathe.
Relax.
Calm.
Ooh.
Ah.
...
(That's me breathing, dipwad.)

THIS WEEK.

It's only Wednesday, and yet, I feel as though I've already been running for several weeks non-stop. My energy and fervor will remain constant, even if my mentality begins to fall to the wayside. So, yeah.
Indulgences is now scheduled to preview on Wednesday, opening on Thursday, apparently, so I now have less than a week to pull myself together. Last night was a good evening for me, in the sense that I felt as though Florence became just a little bit more tangible. I feel as if I'm coming closer to a character, treading the fine line of believability. Now, all I can do is continue to work, and pray to some higher being for a massive injury and an understudy to become available.
Not really.
No.
Bad.

Schedule (As far as can be foreseen into the future):
Monday
12:00 PM- 1:50 PM > Acting Two
2:00 PM- 3:00 PM > Writing Center Staff
7:00 PM- ? > Indulgences Rehearsal
Tuesday
9:30 AM- 10:50 AM > English Composition Two Honors
11:00 AM- 12:15 PM > Tech One
2:00 PM- 3:15 PM > Business Math
7:00 PM- ? > Indulgences Rehearsal
Wednesday
12:00 PM- 1:50 PM > Acting Two
2:00 PM- 5:00 PM > Tech Shop Work
7:00 PM- ? > Indulgences Rehearsal
Thursday
9:30 AM- 10:50 AM > English Composition Two Honors
11:00 AM- 12:15 PM > Tech One
2:00 PM- 3:15 PM > Business Math
7:00 PM- ? > Indulgences Rehearsal
Friday
12:00 PM- 1:50 PM > Acting Two
7:00 PM- ? > Indulgences Rehearsal

Fun.
Crazy.
Freaking insane.
Yep. Pretty much.

LESS THAN THREE.

So, yeah.
I'm in love.
The end.

VOCALLY DISABLED.

Illness has swept over me, and I fear that unless I remain completely disjointed from the real world for the next few days, I may never again join it.
(Which is a gross overstatement, but bear with me. After all, I'm sick.)
I'm off to bed, which will hopefully allow for the facilitation of whatever it is I'm dealing with, snubbing it off the face of the earth and (more importantly) out of my system.
Ugh.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

Finally back at Flagler. Thank God.
Not much to mention that can feasibly be mentioned before I fall into a vicious cycle of sleep and classes, but that the hectic life is still one I desire and certainly own.
Michael and I remain strong, difficult as that may sometimes prove. I feel as though I genuinely care for him, yet the world finds ways to warp my opinions, or to reveal insights that frighten me away. I think I'm quickly falling deeper into something I still haven't fully prepared myself for: commitment.
I missed the people here so incredibly much. I am beyond excited to get the semester started, if not a bit frightened to leap into classes and such. We'll see...

REEFER MADNESS

Holy Mother of God, why did it take me so long to see this?
Easily, EASILY, one of the funniest musicals I've ever seen. Ever. EVER.

"There's only room for one Mary in my life. Mary Lane. With an "L." For Love. I love Mary Lane!"

SCHEDULE THUS FAR:

TODAY: Getting my hair "did," out to dinner, various Birthday crap.
TOMORROW: Orlando, for some good old-fashioned tearing up of whatever proverbial town I so choose. And so on.
THURSDAY: More town-tearing, not to mention a stop by the greyhound track, which might possibly lead to a giant hostile takeover of the high school. Think: massive attack on Frank Casillo. We'll see...
FRIDAY: Back up to St. Augustine, to revel in my lack of script comprehension, and to re-ignite a momentarily flickering relationship. Fun. And maybe a teeny, tiny little party. Tee hee.
SATURDAY: Same.
SUNDAY: Basically Saturday's gist, but with more action!
MONDAY: Yeah. Now it's just getting boring.
TUESDAY: REGISTRATION! AGH!
WEDNESDAY: Classes resume. Egad. Zooks. Poit.

Contact me if you decide to make changes to said plans. Which I may or may not be entirely okay with. Who knows? I'm 19. I'm crazy.

BIRTHDAY WISHES FROM MY PALS.

Oh, I love my Benny.

OH, HOW I LONG TO BE FREE.

Parents bought new speakers for my car.
Cool, right?
WRONG.
My father, his own self-regarded guru of all things do-it-yourself, has decided to take on the task of RIPPING APART THE INSIDE OF MY PRECIOUS VEHICLE.
I CAN'T TAKE ANYMORE OF THIS. GET ME OUT. OUT. NOW. PLEASE.
MUST. GET. OUT. OF. HOUSE.
TODAY.

BARENAKED IN REVIEW.

First of all, a warm and inviting 2006 to everyone, unless I hate you.
Alright.
Last night was genuinely the best concert I've ever attended. The Ladies were unbelievable, and hilarious to boot. They are genuinely better live than they are on their albums, which is a difficult feat these days. With very few exceptions, I would kidnap each and every one of them to have and to hold endlessly.
Especially Stephen. Ahh.
Some nice thoughts for you to ponder:
-The Dredel Song attached very cunningly to the end of "One Week."
-A six-verse version of "Aud Lang Syne," featuring the Hokey Pokey ("and I'll do the Hokey Po-okey, 'cause that's what it's all a-bout"), and some lovely political commentary ("I'm not a-fraid of Jesus Christ, it's Bill O'Riley that fright-ens me!"), and general madness of that sort.
-Live broadcast onto CNN, where Stephen tried to talk directly to Anderson Cooper, and Ed threw a guitar pick directly into the adam's apple of an innocent camera man, trying to capitalize on his giant guitar solo. He later confessed that he just wanted to see if CNN would air it and say, "LATE BREAKING NEWS- GUITAR SOLO!"
-A Hanukkah song entitled "Sipping on Gin and Jews." Nothing else needs to be said.
-Stephen shoved a monkey down his pants.
-White men free-styled. Frequently.
-We wrote an 80's hair-metal "PHONE ZONE" song.
-They threw underwear and Kraft Dinner onstage during appropriate times of songs, which, in my own opinion, was amazing.
-"Call and Answer" was the encore. Oh, my favorite song. Love it. It was the absolute perfect way to end the evening. Perfect.

[Editor's Note: Rachel is on the phone with her mother, who just shouted into the phone, "God, that Mariah Carey- someone needs to run over that bitch. Somebody shoot her."]

STROKE OF MIDNIGHT.

Barenaked Ladies Concert Post #4

"IF I HAD A MILLION DOLLARS"

Barenaked Ladies Concert Post #3

"THE OLD APARTMENT"

Barenaked Ladies Concert Post #2

CHECKING IN.

Barenaked Ladies Concert Post #1

YOU'VE COME A LONG WAY, BABY.

Checking out of Canton, NC; on our way towards Charleston, SC.
It will be four hours of hell in a car. With four other people. Fun.
AGH.

MISSING YOU? HARDLY.

Liar.
I hate the fact that I've finally found people in my life who demand me to miss them. Not that they demand it of me, but I demand it of myself, as though they all possess the power to tango frantically with my emotions and somewhat lack of control over them.
I miss so many people.
Ugh.

TRAVELING DAY.

The family is trekking to NC and SC (What a baffling combination of destinations!) for the next four days, so internet will be scarce, but I will post with flair whenever possible.
Hooray for AudioBlogger!

OPEN LETTER TO NATHAN LANE

You are, have always been, and will forever be my homeboy.

UNLESS I HATE YOU...

...MERRY CHRISTMAS, ONE AND ALL.

YA-FREAKING-Y!

LAPTOP IS BACK.
I AM HAPPY.
YAY!

FELL DOWN; FOOT GO BOOM.

Kelley go OUCH.
Rocking out the crutches (for the first time in my life), and thinking about holding off my Orlando Adventure until after the impending holiday.
Grr.
Hopefully, pain will subside, and I'll be on my way for a day of fun near the Mouse.
Only time shall tell.

BROKEBACK: THE MUSICAL!

If Nathan is backing it, and it's horrifically fake, I love my life.
He's so gay.
Love him...

NEW YORK AND KELLEY: A LOVE STORY, A SYNOPSIS.

It's been a terribly exhausting few days, with absolutely no reasoning in sight. Nonetheless, I wanted to consolidate my New York Frame Of Mind before it had fled in its entirety. So, without further adieu:

Wednesday was a motley rush of finding correct flight numbers and bustling back and forth in various travel scenarios. We finally landed in New York, where I checked my voicemail, finding that one element of my Northeastern Expedition was having second thoughts about city traveling. Besides being frustrated beyond all belief, my call to said party seemed to influence a bit more confidence and cooperation, and by the next morning, our plans were rather concrete.
Getting into the city was no difficult feat, but finding our hostel in twenty degree temperatures was not an adventure I'll soon forget. We settled in, bundled up, and subway-ed ourselves down to Broadway and 50th, where we traversed down my all-too-familiar Favorite Street In The Universe. We ended up near the TKTS booth, and Mary, non-chalantly, suggested that we peek to see what inexpensive tickets we could still find. Floored, yet utterly delighted, I found that there were still Putnum County Spelling Bee tickets for sale, FREAKED OUT, and went up to purchase two tickets of sheer glee. The server, however, had other plans: it knew I was at the counter, and simultaneously FREAKED OUT, leaving myself and everyone after me ticket-less and slightly less enthusiastic as I had been just moments earlier. Still, we wandered around for a bit longer, taking in dinner at a really nice little Italian restaurant, and then making our way down to 42nd to catch the subway back up for the evening.
Thursday began with a frantic call from my Floridian father, mentioning a Nathan Lane sighting on television. That, in its own right, took a good hour out of the day, but was certainly worth every delightful little pudgy, Jewish moment. Next, we cloaked ourselves in warmth, strolled out of the hostel and down the street, and stopped for breakfast at a little diner. We took a window seat and simply basked in the glory of people watching (especially when one of those people happened to be SNL's Fred Armisen, passing by and pausing to glance into the windows while I stared in disbelief and giggling wonder- because I think he's cute). After munching, we headed down to 59th and strolled through Rockefeller Center, Saks, and most delightfully, Sephora. I bought lip gloss. It is quite lovely.
Trolling down Fifth Avenue at a million miles an hour, we made it down towards 44th, where I got a call saying that my Mesmerist had finally made it into the city via bus, and was heading in my direction. We passed on another a few times (not my fault...), but finally met up- to my distinct pleasure, if I might add. We traversed a bit farther and stopped for coffee and pink lemonade (I'm not the greatest fan of hot drinks), and spent some time just talking and catching up. Another college chum/graduate managed to catch up with us in all of her splendor, and while my mother tromped back up to the hostel to find our tickets for the evening, the three of us terrorized the streets of NYC's theatre district, jumping into lobby after lobby, taking smug and smarmy pictures with our favorite theatrical gods, and indulging in general tom-foolery. We fought over the proper pronunciation of Brian F. O'Bryne's name, tried to sneak inside the shop door for Movin' Out, where they were ever-so-ironically "movin' out" (after a final performance on the 11th) and loading their sets into trucks and vans of various shapes and sizes. We tried to find rush tickets at every show imaginable, poked fun at our favorite homosexual couple currently running onstage (Can you guess, little goys?), and were thoroughly interested in Dianetic principles, as were illustrated in a fifteen-minute film screening at the Manhattan Headquarters for Scientology (Michael snuck in to ask if John or Tom were on hand to personally guide us in our journey of exploration. They, apparently, were not.)
[Editor's Note: I swear, as soon as my laptop is returned from the clutches of HP Customer Care, I will have these rumored photos to post and share and utterly rub in your proverbial faces. Seriously. I will gloat. In color.]
At the departure of Miss Dramatist herself came the first ounce of one-on-one time I had shared with Michael since our initial departure the week before. It was nice, I can assure you, even in its brevity. I "miss the crap out of him," something I find dishearteningly weak as a quality, but painfully sincere in its reality. So, that's that.
We met up with Mary again at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Factory (a supposed New York must; in reality, a not-so-must), where we shared our dinner with an enticingly pleasant view of Times Square at its bustling best. Finishing our meals, we pranced across the street to Toys-R-Us, and re-lived our woe-begotten childhoods with plenty of camera-snapping and ridiculous holiday-themed gifts to go around, all of which will be seen at a later date. Promise.
Fate then swept us closer to the Shubert Theatre, current home to the Eric Idle-penned Spamalot. We scattered through a few tiny theatrically-themed shopped, where I purchased items far above their recommended prices, and found things that I desperately wished I could have for my own, show recordings and t-shirts to abounding.
It was at this point when I was forced to say goodbye to my dear friend and companion, and we shared a nice moment on the shady corner of Port Authority, one that will be repeated in the future if it knows what's good for it. Ha.
I rushed back to the Shubert, where I climbed in, stowed far too much baggage under my tiny seat. I basked momentarily in the grandeur that is a tiny Broadway house, finding exquisite joy in both the proximity to the stage, and also in the lack of tiny little strips of paper signifying substitutes in the performance.
Original Cast Performances = Unbelievably Happy Kelley
I then turned my head and saw Mike Nichols. And froze. And looked again. He sat, and I ran downstairs to look at the lobby, and then back upstairs to look at Nichols. And then, the show began.
I have just a few things to say regarding the performance itself, as I choose not to genuinely ruin it for anyone who plans on seeing it in the future. I think I'll write a genuine review about it for Acting Two next semester, and I'll post my opinions at that point. Here's the rub- Seussical was a test-run for Idle's underlying pursuit, Spamalot. In terms of structure, presentation, characters, design, etcetera, the shows are parallels that fight for genius, but fall just short of achieving such goals. It was the star power, in earnest, that allowed Spamalot its Tony win last summer.
That being said, the show was wholly enjoyable. Hyde-Pierce, my eternal love, was not as deftly up to the task presented to him in act one, but managed to make a recovery in the second act that even I could justify. Azaria was astounding in his differing characterization, Curry was Curry, and Sara was the greatest legitimate diva I have ever seen. But it was Christian Borle, and more deftly, Christopher Sieber who genuinely made the experience an enjoyable one for me. The two were so honest and so willing to play along that I, of course, wish that Sieber wasn't gay. And that Borle wasn't dating Sutton Foster. But we'll push that aside momentarily.
Post-performance, Curry bolted and left me signature-less, which I rather expected to have happen, so I was left out in the cold merely waiting to see my beloved Sieber, and perhaps Ramirez, if I was ever-so-lucky.
The first one out was Azaria, who was kind enough to sign programs and simultaneously tickle the crowd with some Agador Spartacus crooning (a-la "The Birdcage"). Next was the diva-licious Sara, who signed the our programs, and simultaneously dropped her recent casting on "Grey's Anatomy." She was genuinely obliging, but obviously exhausted.
Finally, to my giddy and ultimate delight, Pierce came out of the stage door. He blustered through a few signatures, said some polite "thank-you"s, and then made his way in my direction. He took my program, started signing, while I interjected, "it was such a pleasure to finally get to see you perform live." He stopped, looked up, and smiled with a very genuine, "I really appreciate that." Then, we took a picture. And those of the Land Of Kelley rejoiced.

-I have to run momentarily. The conclusion when I return.

-Okay, back. And now, I shall continue...

By then, it was raining and ridiculously cold, but I was significantly happier than I had imagined. We jumped back on the subway, fearing that midnight would bring about the MTA strike and leave us without transport to La Guardia the next morning. Also affected by our quick jaunt back to the hostel was my inability to catch the 12:01 screening of "The Producers" at the Ziegfeld, which was my ultimate goal, but too freaking bad. We got back, tucked in, and were situated for the evening.
Friday morning, we awoke to find that the strike had been postponed, and we had public transit to wisk us away and through the city. We packed, dragged our suitcases down Broadway and back to the miniature diner, where we sat and munched once again. I decided it would be nice to trek down the street a little further to the next available bus stop, rather than subway-ing it one last time. The air was nice and crisp, and I wanted to take one more look at the architecture (We were in the Columbia section of the upper west side, so most of the surroundings were college-student oriented. Hot.). Who I didn't expect to see, passing by the bus stop with her dog, was Tony-winner and vocal grace Victoria Clark.
I love Victoria Clark. There, honestly, aren't a lot of women I would openly proclaim devotion for, but Victoria Clark is not one of those women. I think she is unbelievable. I was fighting to see Light In The Piazza from the moment I heard it was opening at the Vivian Beaumont, but that proved fruitless each and every trip we've made to the city. I love Victoria Clark.
And there she was, talking on her cell phone and walking her dog. Right next to me. She stopped, and I started to turn as if to speak and let her know of my admiration, and as I craned my neck around, she was gone.
Poor, sad Kelley.
But I saw her, and that was enough for me. I'd been gifted with several really enticing opportunities to see and meet people in those three days, and that was merely the icing on the cake. I will be eternally aware of just how much I crammed into this miniature trip, and how much fun it genuinely was.

(Hmm. I will certainly have more to divulge as I am rightfully returned to my laptop and such, but for now, that will suit.)

INTERMISSION.

My laptop basically exploded last evening, so I'm pacing myself and dealing with appropriate bereavement issues. Beyond that, I will, at some point, have trip details ready to post after this seemingly-interminable hiatus (for me- not you).
A good trip, I can assure.
I am now sick and exhausted, however, so, to sleep I drift.

NYC.

Posting will be sporadic, if not non-existent, for the next few days, as I will be gloating mercilessly throughout the streets of New York. I will, of course, be simultaneously crushed as I wittiness true talent prancing about onstage, at which point I will be sure to drive myself into a bridge or something equally hard and deadly.
Seriously, though.

A veritable crap-load of photographs will obviously be taken, and some of them with real actors, hopefully. There will also be some "mushy romantic NYC photographs" (or so I hope), which would send My Little Icy Heart soaring. [Editor's Note: He called tonight and said, "Hey, babe," which was so ironic that it sent me reeling. I commented, and he freaked out and asked if it was "appropriate." Which, again, sent me reeling. It is so, so very weird to have someone in my life. Unbelievably weird.]

My flight leaves in less than twelve hours, and I'm still far from focused on packing. Basically finished, but far from focused. I hate being distracted by sixteen million factors that don't matter or shouldn't matter or won't matter but might just matter. They hold such dominion over my progress, and they certainly shouldn't be able to, yet they do. Without question.
With question. Whatever.

-Will he make it?
-Does he really want to be there?
-Am I annoying him?
-Will our reservations be what we expected them to be?
-What if understudies take over the performance?
-Will I get to make out with Tim Curry, or would that make Michael jealous?
-Would that make Elis jealous?
-Thank God I read all of those trashy Fearless books, because they've left me with a relative mental map of the city.
-Just how gay is Nathan Lane?
-How much did I want to jump Hugh Laurie when he started singing "Ain't She Sweet" on the show tonight?
-Is this why he refuses to read my blog?
-Will I totally screw up this trip?
-Am I ready him to meet a parent?
-Why the hell do I over-analyze EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE?
-Am I officially out of hotel stationary?
-Why are the Barenaked Ladies so damn amazing?
-How freaking amazing is this trip going to be?
-Will I have another insane celebrity sighting like at The Frogs?
-Can I go see The Producers at midnight at The Ziegfeld?
-Why does James Barbour have to be in LA right now?
-Which leading man in Spamalot would be the easiest to take advantage of?
-No wonder Michael doesn't read this stuff.

Alright. I'm done. Really. It's time to try and get some rest before I go absolutely insane. Which I've already started to do. Too late. Oh, well. Some rest will be a good thing, I think. More updates via AudioBlogger to come, I suppose.
Later.

PEER PRESSURE ROCKS.

Post the first line from the first entry of each month to provide you with a YEAR IN REVIEW of sorts.

January:
It's the first day (afternoon, at this point) of 2005, and I, myself, am quite prepared for the New Year.

February:
Here I sit, awaiting none other than an escape from this wonderful nation where I can sit for hours on end, listening eagerly to an illiterate Texas oil man who may or may not have served his time in the Texas Air National Guard.

March:
What a waste of seven John Travolta Dollars.

April:
With multiple deaths and my Glaze Under Fire/Ross From Hell experience on Saturday, I was simply too exhausted to try and compute anything, let alone write up some mindless post about my meager existence.

May:
...And the fires of Hell are just beginning to consume my weakened mortal frame.

June:
Done.

July:
Call it disrespectful, but the California coast kicks every other God-forsaken shoreline to the curb.

August:
I think I've played through Songs For A New World at least six times today. That has to be a record.

September:
I'M POST #500, BE-OTCH.

October:
So, while we chilled with the Gators and Crocks, I noticed the Tiki masks.

November:
"I speak for him. Never had the gift myself. The words were there, but the words just sat inside me, never rose to leave. They just sat there. Many was the time-- especially with the inspiration of a well-turned lady-- that I wanted to make those words get up off their duffs, and get out of my insides and so some business. The gift of talking wasn't mine. The gift of talking so's to make someone move. And by move I mean to smile, to blink, to say 'yes, indeed' when they had just got done thinking 'no sir-ee, uh-uh...' I speak for him, because this gift was never mine."

December:
I'm a brunette. Scorn me as you must.

That was actually kind of fun. I'll have to do one next year, too.

PERPETUAL NAPPING 101.

As much as I'm going to be sick of it within a week, it's been nice to just rest. Sleep is something I was obviously lacking, but I had no idea just how much. I feel like I could live in bed for weeks on end with absolutely no remorse or concern for life otherwise.
Which is not the best feeling in the world, I'll acknowledge, but one I will certainly accommodate for a few days nonetheless.
I miss Flagler. I do. Genuinely. College has been, thus far, the greatest experience of my life. I need the freedom it provides me, and I desperately desire the company of the people I’ve been surrounded with (with very few exceptions, ironically enough).
And I’ve been ridiculously spoiled over the past weeks, with my full knowledge attached. Life has provided me with opportunities far beyond anything I could have wished for. I have the marginal success I could have hoped for with the department (grossly boastful as that may sound), I have some of the greatest companions money could buy (and certainly has, I’ll assume; those hussies…), and one of the most rapid-fire, engaging, and stirring relationships that could be dreamt of.
I suppose that stepping back for a few weeks allows me a more solidified appreciation for these extraordinary blessings that make up my current existence, but I want them- I need them- here with me now. I do. Certainly. And it will, without doubt, be a wonderful experience to share time with people who have been vacant from my life for these ironically short months, if not just to share with them the vitality that has suddenly become present within me, the budding confidence that those closest to me have begun to recognize. I am becoming the person I have desired to be for such a devastatingly long time, and whereas that’s a shocking situation, I don’t care. I am more content at this point in my life than I have been in such a very long time.
I am happy.
I am happy.
I am happy.

[Editor’s Note: I definitively need an iPod with a larger storage capacity. I have far, far beyond twenty little “gigs” of music, and it is killing me to remove some of my most treasured albums to make space for new friends. I need more space. Santa, be a dear.]

HOLY FREAKING LUNCHMEAT.

SPAMALOT.
DECEMBER 15TH.
ORCHESTRA ROW 18.
TIM CURRY.
DAVID HYDE PIERCE.
HANK AZARIA.
SARA RAMIREZ.
CHRISTIAN BORLE.
CHRISTOPHER SIEBER.

I THINK I'M GOING TO HAVE A MOTHER-EFFING HEART ATTACK.

YOU KNOW HOW I ROLL.

Acting One Show = Insanity

AS TIME GOES BY.

A week of firsts, and everything around me seems odd yet eerily normal.
Details are entirely unimportant, but the motivation beyond them is slightly more important. I spent the day in general fear and aggravation, but after spending more time in the arms of one I care deeply for, my apprehension has begun to falter, loosening its grasp on my over-exhausted logic and rationality.
If only my stomach would dare to cooperate.
Alright. To sleep I go, as 8:00 AM holds my first ever college exam. Fun.

THE NEW DO.

I'm a brunette. Scorn me as you must.

CARPE DIEM.

FLAGLER COLLEGE SENIOR CONSERVATORY PRODUCTIONS BEGIN TONIGHT.
BE THERE, OR BE A GOSH-DARN SQUARE.
VICKI'S SHOW WILL KICK ASS.
BUT DON'T WATCH ME.
SERIOUSLY.
UGH.

THE LOW-DOWN, Y'ALL.

A weekend at home was good, but I'm saddled with the desperate desire to find my way back to Flagler.
I want to be back. Now.
Now.
Now.

I WANT TO BE A PRODUCER.

The new movie recording for The Producers is unbelievable.
I love it.
I am incredibly happy. And not just because of Nathan. But he's amazing.
(AND UMA SUCKS NASTY ASS.)
There. I said it.

HAPPY FREAKING THANKSGIVING.

ON THIS DAY OF GIVING THANKS, THERE ARE MANY THINGS TO BE "THANK"-FUL FOR. HERE ARE A FEW OF MY ALL-TIME FAVORITES:

I am thankful for the crayons it would take to make this picture look as life-like as the my non-existent room. Because that's what I'm going to do- draw all over the plywood sitting on my floor, and hope to God that someone sells it to a gallery for millions of dollars so that I can buy myself a FREAKING BED.

I am thankful for Stove Top stuffing, because I learned how to stir water and spice together to make fluffy, carb-infested goodness.

I am thankful for the wonderful people I share my college life with. They fill my days with adventure and excitement, and my nights with nothing, because there is nothing to do at night in St. Augustine. So, we are bored together, and I would have it no other way.

I am thankful for my best friend, because Elise knows how to drop it like it's hot. Or cold. Depending on the current temperature.

I am thankful for Michael, as he is waiting for me to see RENT. Which is a God-like sacrifice in my own personal and hence expert opinion. And for other reasons, too, I guess.

I am thankful for the healing power of Ginger Ale. It needs no further explanation.

But most of all, I am thankful for my car and the enabling power it has to get me far, far away from Brigadoon. Which is Rachel's horribly-adequate name for Dunedin. Don't dispute her. Or me.

WHY DO I LOVE TARGET?

The books. It's all about the books.

MR. READ

What can I say? Words don't do justice to the two weeks I've spent with him.
I've never had company who I could sit with and listen to endlessly. I could spend hours engulfed and engaged in the stories he shares, in the life which he's so willingly imparted to me through conversation. I find myself wishing I could engage him the way he intrigues me. We find difficulty in recognizing our own positive qualities, yet I find endless things in him I can admire and respect and enjoy. And he, for whatever reason, sees something in me that allows him to be comfortable with my presence and my undeniably deviated personality.
Since I've spent time with Michael, I sing more often. I find myself wrapped up in thought, not of the most trivial nature, but of who and what I need to expect of myself as an individual. I am attracted to him, I am compelled by him, and, for the moment, I am so unbelievably comfortable whenever he's around me. I want more of him, more of the person he makes me feel like.
I'm corny, stupid, floating, cheesy, gawky, shy, and it's all because of him.
All his fault.

NOT SO AMAZING.

-Saw Ben Rush making pizzas at the restaurant we stopped at. Laughed my freaking head off.
-Movie was adequate. Visually, I loved it. Musically, I was unimpressed. Company, although nice, was disappointing. Ugh.
-Don't know what I'm thinking. Not sure if that's a good sign or an incredibly bad thing.
I think I'm just slightly downtrodden about the evening in general. Seventeen million factors combine to force me into a semi-depressed stupor, and then allow me to feel like an irrational pansy at such pathetic thought. I need to get over myself, get over this, and deal with what is in front of me.
Clear and concise was never my goal. Get over it.

LIFE IS GOOD.

I can't facilitate diction of any other sort- there are not words to categorize life thus far. Good, although bland and general, is the only classification that adequately fits the past weeks. Life is good. I am happy, I am (relatively) healthy, I am safe. There's not much more to be concerned with.

AHH. NATHAN.

Is it wrong that this is the face I live for on a daily basis?
I think not.

THUS FAR.

Ugh. Really nice conversation with Casey today. I'm glad that I've got a relationship with him that can just pick up immediately where one conversation leaves off. I need the carefree sibling thing that we share. I'd be pathetic without it, I think.
Ten days have provided me with more literary fodder than I daresay I ever could have wished for. I could say that I feel stable and tranquil and perfectly content in the life I am leading, but I would be lying. I'm not. I don't. And I never will be.
That's certainly not to say that I'm not enjoying what's happening. My present company is amazing- a person I cannot allow myself to look towards without admiration, compassion, and highly-deserved respect. Nor am I worried about what that relationship will provide in the future.
But that is not the sole facet of my life in the present, nor can it be my sole fixation mentally. I cannot let it be, and therefore, it will not be.
Indulgences, although severely draining on my patience, will prove to be something I am proud to be a part of, I think. Although I'm not a fan of the script itself, I feel I have some opportunity to expand myself as a performer, and maybe even create a name for myself.
If that's even what I want.
I look at the human being who sits here, typing without general fervor or protruding desire for achievement, and wonder where and how she will hold sway over her universe. What is it that she can provide that no one else has the capacity for? Is she destined for greatness? Or merely anonymity? And does any of it really matter to her? For, in total honesty, the girl sitting in front of me could simply do what was set out before her, never asking questions of any particular importance or significance. She could do any of a million things without trying, without yearning or passion, and maybe it wouldn't even phase her. Which is probably the most frightening part of the whole scenario.
I'm entirely exhausted, to the degree where even thinking has become strenuous.
I get no kick from mental strain.

"DO THE ARM-FLAILING THING!"

NOOOOOO!!!!!!

They're canceling Arrested Development, only the greatest comedy on television since rocks were invented.
And my life is over.

RIGHT NOW.

I feel safe. Secure. Wanted. Appreciated. Cared for. Desired.
Human.
I feel real, tonight.
And it feels really, really nice.

AND THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON SLEEP.

I think all I needed was some rest, some water, and a little bit of introspective reflection.
I will continue to get better as the day progresses, I have promised myself.
There are a few things I know about myself. One of them is that I am a wretchedly stoic individual when the need to be somewhat detached arises. Stoic to the degree that I may remain level and temperate in my feasible human emotions, if not in my physical conditions. In this case, my body said, ever so kindly, "what the hell is going on? What are we doing? Do we know what's going on? Are you even listening to me?"
And whereas I am normally a good listener, my body decided that, indeed, I was not as good as I thought I was. And thus the sickness.

I'm realizing that by sinking into my plume bedding this afternoon, I allowed myself the time I needed to be human again. I'm thinking, and although it's still at a sluggish pace, it's thinking nonetheless. I've also awoken and found myself ready to consume food. Not frightened by it or sickened at the thought, but knowledgeable and aware of the fact that I need something in my system if I want to continue, oh, I don't know, living.

I guess I enjoy being vague when I type. It keeps even my generally understood feelings at bay, and allows a more realistic image of current going-ons. But, I assure you, as soon as I am definite and positive in my new situation, I will most certainly gush and gawk with appropriate fervor. At the moment, I'm just waiting.
Ugh. I have to remind myself that only five days of relative "waiting" have passed. And now, I need to get over it.
Okay. Done.
Waiting is good for me.

BECAUSE YOU HAD TO BE A BIG SHOT.

I love how I lack the capacity to look like a normal human being in photographs.
Fun!

PRE-HALLOWEEN PHOTOS, POST-HALLOWEEN.

Buh-duh-buh-buh-buh, I'm Lovin' It.

AHH! LOOK OUT! IT'S CHANGE!!!

Sick. Not sick.
Sick. Not sick.
Sick. Not sick.
I can just see that kangaroo in front of me looking puzzled and saying, "WTF, mate?"
It would just be nice to have a logical explanation in front of me screaming, "here's why, you dumb be-otch! Ha! Ha, ha!"
But no. Nothing. No explanation, no kangaroo. Nothing.
I am, quite obviously, a disturbed individual.
I know that I am over-stressed, but thus far, I've dealt well with it. And in comparison to other individuals, I am HARDLY over-stressed.
I'm not upset- far from it. I'm happy with my situation in life, I'm growing comfortable with the format and daily routine I seem to inhabit, and it's becoming what I guessed it would at some point become.
And then it hits me: Routine. Boredom. Stationary. Three words that do not sit well in the pit of my stomach, churning around with grudge and regret and fear. Fear. I need something different in my life. I crave it.
And this week, I have approached two opportunities for just that- change. Direct, brazen change. Well, not ordinarily so brazen, but certainly brazen for the perpetually-inexperienced Kelley.
Change Number One is personal, unexpected, and still very new. A nice new, mind you, but new nonetheless.
Change Number Two is ambitious, downright disconcerting, and not what I expected from myself, but what others seemed to have expected from me all along. Hence disconcerting. And I think I have no way of pulling myself away from it, as it appears to be the sensible route in my existence thus far.
Change is good, right?

BLURRY.

I don't understand a lot of what happened today.
I was sick this morning, in the most physical of senses.
I made it through class, which was quite a feat. I managed to maintain a relative grasp of the surrounding world through breakfast, at which point I realized the gravity of my exhaustion. I slept for an hour. Woke up. Pulled through class, and stopped to chat with good people. Made it back to the room. I slept for an hour. Worked my FINAL daily Box Office shift, left, and slept for two hours. Ushering. Box Office. Physical revulsion. Pain to the point that I'm not sure what's wrong, but I know for certain that I will not be able to approach food for some time.
And then, we drove. We walked. He talked. It was such a nice, peaceful sort of scenario to end the week, one that I hope gets repeated.
To sleep. But probably not, perchance, to dream.
Then again, maybe.

SIGH.

Cannot breathe.
Cannot type.
Cannot think.
Cannot stop this compulsory grin that's spreading across my face.

I am such a loser.

BECAUSE THIS GIFT WAS NEVER MINE.

"I speak for him. Never had the gift myself. The words were there, but the words just sat inside me, never rose to leave. They just sat there. Many was the time-- especially with the inspiration of a well-turned lady-- that I wanted to make those words get up off their duffs, and get out of my insides and so some business. The gift of talking wasn't mine. The gift of talking so's to make someone move. And by move I mean to smile, to blink, to say 'yes, indeed' when they had just got done thinking 'no sir-ee, uh-uh...' I speak for him, because this gift was never mine."

-John Orlock, Indulgences In The Louisville Harem

REASON NUMBER SEVENTEEN MILLION FOR HATING PEOPLE:

THEY SUCK. PERIOD.

Why am I so easily disappointed in people?
It kills me that I lose respect for individuals in such a miniscule span of time, and I'm entirely sick of sitting through the whole process over and over again.
I hate this.
I hate this.

MIDNIGHT BREAKFAST=FOOD FOR THE DAY.

I find it rather disappointing when my only opportunity for food consumption is cradled in an excuse for Scary College Students to dress up as...Well...Slutty College Students.
I stopped in for five minutes, realized that I was going to find myself bored to death (no matter how many people seemed to like my "Costume"), and instead, sat at Steak-n-Shake with Michael. I had a Grilled Cheese Sandwich.
It was lovely.
Seriously, it was nice to have a real conversation with someone. It was shop talk, mind you, but it was more intelligent and interesting than most of the banter I've shared with individuals here in my short time at Flagler. Overall, good stuff.
And tomorrow (today) holds only Phyllis' class at eleven. Not that I really want to attend, but it's at least nice to know that Don Robbins is more committed to the Golf Team than to teaching Liberal Arts Math. But then again, who wouldn't be? It's freaking LIBERAL ARTS MATH, for Christ's sake!
It's nice to know that I can still hear music being played (Read: BLASTED) from three floors below. I bet a bass line like that could chip the paint off of the ceiling, shatter the Tiffany stained-glass windows, AND bring Christopher Walken as Henry Flagler out to shout, "More Naked Babies!"
I have a fever, and the only cure is-

ARROWED!!!

BECAUSE THERE'S "CRAZY" IN THE BREAKDOWN.

Why is it that everyone around me is losing it?
How is it that I am the sane, calm, and contained one? What the hell is going on?
I am immensely supportive of everyone, but it baffles me that everyone finds themselves simultaneously falling apart. Perhaps it's something in the air. Or the water. Maybe it's the fact that I don't seem to have the capacity to make logical, rational thoughts at the moment.
I've listened to so much talking and sadness and hurt emotion over the past few days that I'm amazed I've kept myself above it. I don't need to drag myself into this radical, intensive emotion that lingers over the heads of these afflicted individuals, and yet, I genuinely hope that they realize I am still here to sympathize and lend an ever-affectionate ear.
And to sit through the crazy talk.
Because that's what I'm here for.

FRIDAY NIGHT.

---Drove to Jacksonville, which was an adventure in itself. Did not die.

---Stopped at a mall of some sort (The Avenues, perhaps?) and spent $19 on a bright green corduroy jacket. Torrential rain locked us in the store for some time, but eventually, we were forced to make a break for it. Screamed our way through the streets and into The Cheesecake Factory.

---Stood, dripping, while we waited for a table. Had a fantastic meal, took ridiculous pictures, and paid far too much (as was expected).

---Godiva Chocolate Cheesecake is amazing.

---Traveled some distance (and almost died several times) to Tinsel Town and watched "Waiting." Totally worth the wait, and insanely cute, if not slightly horrifying.

---Crammed into the car and raced to Fuel, where we met some insanely cool people, took more ridiculous pictures, and allowed cute strangers to hit on Rachel, but only as we walked out the door. Managed to get picked up and carried around after we got out the door.

---Back to the dorm. Tired. Sleep. Now...

STEPHEN, I LOVE YOU.

I am madly in love with Stephen Colbert. And he's deaf in one ear.
Boo-hoo.
I adore him.

ONE OF THOSE DAYS.

I had a fellow cast member speak of today as "one of those times when everything you are sure of becomes fair game for questioning."
[Editor's Note: I took some liberty with the quote- sue my ass. And then, get over it.]
There are certainly moments when I will myself towards failure for the sake of failure. Today didn't seem to be one of them: I woke up, and I honestly started off in a reasonable manner, determined to push my way through any lingering negativity I was still facing.
But, within an hour of Wakened Glory, I was already dreading Indulgences rehearsal. It's become something I genuinely fear, simply because I feel so very displaced no matter the effort I put forward. It's the most challenging part I've ever dealt with, the largest role I've ever had (although I'd never admit it in conversation for my own vanity's sake), and I find myself with a group of people I'm thoroughly intimidated by.
With the sudden and unexpected departure of Matt Faison (Damn you, Wilma, and all the insanity you bring!), The L.H. suggested that we allow ourselves some "getting to know you" time. Reasonable, but wholly intimidating when you are a socially inept individual, such as I.
And, of course, it was. My uncomfortable silence is often interpreted as arrogance; why is that? If I had intentions of arrogance, people would certainly know about it. Nevertheless, I was provided with far more information than I ever knew or had the ambition to know about most of the individuals in the room (Although one revelation, that which I think few took for any kind of magnitude, struck me as quite sincere, and something I genuinely felt empathetic towards).
I wish I found myself comfortable around people. I wish I was exuberant, lively, and enjoyed by those I spend time with. I wish confidence came easily to me.
But it doesn't.
Which is why I sit here typing at 2:00 AM to an audience that will never care enough to read my thoughts.
I guess it's easier that way.

BECAUSE FLAT STANLEY IS AMAZING.

Jon Stewart is cool, too.

[Editor's Note: I have to admit that I am loving The Colbert Report. Maybe just Stephen Colbert. Maybe it's his "It's French, Bitch" quote. But that's not my point. It's wonderful, and that's that. The end.]

THIS IS WHY KELLEY DOESN'T TALK ON PHONES.

Because bad things happen when Blogger is just a touch-tone away.

BATTLE OF THE "BAND."

Okay, I was a bad participant.
I showed up for the last band. And then walked along the beach for roughly half an hour with Rachel.
Baaaad Kelley.
I'm making my way down to Dunedin later on today. Which should be fun.
Ugh. Math time.

FLORENCE.

I've never found myself so lost in character that I'm afraid to come up for air- what it might do to me, how I'll have to force myself to interact with the world at large.
I'm frightened.
Genuinely, truly, horribly frightened.
I want her to go away.

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND.

Sickness, that is.
And that's all I have to say.
Bedtime.

INDULGENCES IN THE FLAGLER HAREM.

I had an interesting pseudo-chat-in-passing with Matt Faison. I sort of knew that it was bound to happen. It's difficult to avoid your director in the auditorium parking lot.
Awkward, and difficult.
I know I'm not the outward, vocal individual of the group. I understand that I'm the one that doesn't necessarily fit in. And I continually face that. And I knew that he was aware of that. I just didn't know that he seems to understand that, too.
I don't think I've ever worked with a director who felt the need to assist me in justifying my own value. I have genuinely, without deviation, felt absolutely useless among that group of people. As though everything I'm doing is wrong, every movement I make is too calculated, not calculated enough, lacking whatever it is I'm supposed to have. And it kills me.
When he walks over to me this evening, his movement as calculated as my initial avoidance from his rather compassionate air, he plants himself and questions me. Literally, boldly, honestly questions me. I, of course, have no course of action but to avoid his human emotion like the plague, mumbling something like "I'm still feeling my way around," or other such rational garbage.
He looks at me, says words that I vaguely recall (yet could recite verbatim), and puts his hand on my shoulder.
Simple.
Profound.
Meaningless? Astutely meaningful.
Still, undeniably awkward.
I hate it when people care.

[Editor's Note: "Three's Company" has to be the most senseless, crazy, time-consuming guilty pleasure. And, dammit, I miss the crap out of John Ritter.]

WHAT???!!! JB??!!!

I was channel flipping, and I caught a glimpse of Tom Cavanagh. I thought, "wow, Ed, it's good to see you on television again."
And then, someone else came onscreen.
It wasn't God, but it was very, very close.
It was James. My glorious, beautiful James.
And I was forced to leave the room for "medical reasons."
(I had to dye my hair.)
James Barbour's movie-that-never-was, "Alchemy," is playing for the first time on ABC Family this weekend. And I will be watching it OVER AND OVER again.
And I'll watch the clip of him performing "This Is The Moment" (HA!) OVER AND OVER again.

IT'S DARK.

Aggh. I hate it.

HA.

Listening to Richard Cheese. He's amazing.
Oh, yeah.
But, then again, he always has been.
Ah, repetition.

ALLIGATOR FARM.

So, while we chilled with the Gators and Crocks, I noticed the Tiki masks. And I decided that they would look really cool in some sort of movie trailer.
Little did I know that the Wedding Crashers website has a "Trailer Crashers" promo, in which you can put a photo of yourself and/or a friend into the trailer.
Needless to say, it's amazing.

Here are the two Tiki masks having fun with Chris Walken.
But, then again, who wouldn't have fun with Chris Walken?

Catch Lord Kookamunga and Chief Rublerocka in "Trailer Crashers." Seriously. Do it. NOW.

xFISHCOREx

Hmm.
I've no idea what the weekend shall hold.
Something grand, I imagine.
And my fish is amazing.
(I can't wait to find out what my roommate thinks. Ha.)